


The Disappearance of Baby Jesus

by headless_nic



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Second Sequel to: The Apple Thief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 15:07:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17286344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headless_nic/pseuds/headless_nic
Summary: Christmas is coming closer and, at last, Mycroft is coming back from school, and on top of that, Reverend Whitwater has decided to stage a nativity play at church. Now if that is not something to look forward to?! But when the children pile in for practice, they find that the manger is empty and Baby Jesus nowhere to be found... - Once more the game is afoot for the little detective and his friends.





	The Disappearance of Baby Jesus

**Author's Note:**

> Again, this story is dedicated to my son.

The disappearance of Baby Jesus

Waking up in the dim light of the early morning, the sleepy lad stretched himself, yawning and wondered, if perhaps it was worth turning around for a couple of minutes more. Not that the little tyke was really still tired, but his room was freezing, the plump hot water bottle had long ceased to emanate heat and had ended up at the foot end of his bed, where he was barely able to touch it with his bed-sock clad feet (1).

The tiny window was covered in intricate frost patterns (2) and he was sure, he could see his breath fogging up in the chilly air of his chamber. Only Emma had it warm, sleeping in the kitchen, and when Mycroft finally returned home from school for his Christmas holidays, the two brothers could, at last, keep each other warm as they had always done (3).

It was this thought, that made little Sherlock Holmes sit up in his bed, when it dawned on him, that his brother would arrive today! How could he forget?

Sliding out of bed, bracing himself against the frosty air, he reached for his shabby looking dressing gown, he had inherited from his older brother and put it on quickly over his flannel nightshirt. Picking up his clothes from the chair underneath the window, he trudged downstairs to wash and get dressed in front of the stove, where it was nice and warm.

He found the kitchen deserted, but heard the maid rummage around the laundry, where she heated the kettle, so they would have enough hot water, later on, to take a bath.

"You know, the boys will need it, once you return from the station with them." she had said to his uncle the night before, who in turn had only nodded his head, too occupied with reading a book.

Emma was nice and considerate and within a few weeks, they had settled into a quiet routine that did not at all resemble the timid atmosphere when Kitty had been around. Pouring himself a mug of tea, which she had already prepared, he began stripping down and washed. It admittedly was but a quick wash, as he looked forward to the bath in the big pewter tub later on, so surely it would be all right not to be too bothered with scrubbing his neck and behind his ears – parts of his body that seemed to accumulate a surprising amount of grime.

Absent-mindedly, as the little imp was already busy thinking about what adventures he and Mycroft would get up to once he arrived, Sherlock plunked the soap into the enamel water jug (4) that stood on the side of the stove where it waited to be picked up by his uncle, as the man did not like to wash and shave with cold water. When he realised how it swayed, standing close to the edge, he pushed it a bit further towards the middle and then began dressing. Putting on his woollen stockings first, his thick winter drawers followed, as well as a knitted vest, a flannel shirt, thick corduroy trousers and a knitted waistcoat (5). At last, he felt too warm being this close to the fire and retreated towards the draughty window, sitting down on the bench there, sipping on his now almost tepid tea.

Only one week till Christmas, he mused, as he drank, one arm propped up on the table, the other holding the earthen mug. There would be no school till after New Year and if that was not already wonderful enough, his sweet tooth looked forward to the mince pies and the plum pudding and the gingerbread (6) and the dates and raisins and… - his mouth began watering at the thought of all the goodies. Aldwin had already promised, that tonight, as a treat for Mycroft's return they would make some baked apples. The anticipation for that well-loved treat made him hungry enough to even look forward to his obligatory portion of porridge that his uncle insisted upon him eating every morning during the winter.

He was woken from his most pleasant thoughts by a sharp hiss and glancing up, he saw that the water inside the jug was now boiling violently, foamy liquid flowing over its rim and evaporating from the hot iron surface with angry hisses. As the water heated up more and more, the jug with its smooth bottom began to move on its own, and hobbled ever so near to the back of the range, dancing as if it had its feet burned – if it had any. Being first bemused at the spectacle unfolding, after a minute or two of complete befuddlement, the child started laughing. It looked so incredibly funny as the jug danced back and forth on the hot iron surface sometimes turning around as if in agitation and then again wobbling sideways in a fairly straight line. But then, with a clank, the jug had danced too close to the edge, and slid off the range, getting wedged between wall and stove, slowly tilting, till it spilt the hot, soapy liquid all over the floor.

"Oh, dear!" Sherlock muttered, his eyes wide as the water spread across the stone-tiled surface.

It was, as always, most unlucky, that both adults came into the kitchen shortly after and long before Sherlock had found a solution to the problem at hand. Uncle Aldwin in his dressing gown and nightshirt arrived from towards the hallway, obviously wanting to pick up his warm water to wash and Emma from the laundry, looking heated from her efforts of lighting the kettle, which was always a tricky business. Seeing her master and knowing him by now, she hurried to get him a cup for his tea, and so, not looking where she was treading and unaware of the disaster that had occurred only moments before, her eyes went wide in surprise, when her foot slipped and she skid across the floor, ending up on her backside and in the process knocking the young and perplexed man off his feet, too.

Both maid and uncle lay in a most undignified heap on the kitchen floor, legs entangled and either flustered and flushed with embarrassment (7).

Aldwin Holmes was the first to recover and was almost desperately keeping his eyes on his giggling nephew, who had failed miserably at keeping his features under control. His guardian glared at him, though from his expression it was clear, that he was well aware of the funny side, as well. At last, he got up, using the open door to steady himself, before helping the mortified girl onto her feet with some difficulty, considering he had no real stance himself. Slithering across the room in his house slippers, with a sigh Aldwin sat down on the next chair within reach.

"Was that you?" he enquired in exasperation, his cheeks still burning, but a sparkle in his grey eyes.

"It was an accident..." his nephew mumbled.

"An accident?!" Aldwin raised an eyebrow at the boy before him, who from the corners of his eyes could see the maid flee back into the laundry, sobbing.

"Yes. I'll clean the floor in a moment – I would have done so already, but then you came in… - But first I want to apologise to Emma." was the quiet answer. Had it been Kitty, he would have been hard-pressed to apologise voluntarily.

Knocking on the door he heard a startled call to enter and there Emma sat on a tiny footstool, looking still deeply ashamed and flustered.

"I am really fed up, you know?" she remarked, wiping the tears from her comely face and then, once more repeated angrily, pointing at her dress. "I am so fed up with this!"

The small boy stared at her, his eyes wide with fear, hoping she would not leave them, too. What would his uncle say? And what Mrs Nichols? But there was little doubt, her dress had been all but ruined.

"I am so sorry, Emma. It just happened. I don't even know how… Please, don't leave."

"Who speaks of leaving, love?" she sobbed. "I meant those blasted crinolines!"

Sherlock stared at her in surprise. "But don't you like wearing them?"

"They are the most impractical thing, ever, I tell you, Sherlock! Who comes up with such follies?" she cried out.

"Does that mean, you are not wearing them voluntarily?" sounded the bewildered voice from his guardian, who had appeared in the doorway, barefoot, so he would not slip as easily.

The young woman shook her head resolutely.

"Mrs Nichols..." she began, rolling her eyes. "When she contacted me, she told me, that I would have to do better than run around in my black work dress or else everyone will think us to be completely uncivilised."

"And what would be so uncivilised about a maid wearing practical clothing, suitable for work?" a now smiling Aldwin asked, looking from his nephew to his housemaid.

Emma just shrugged her shoulders, grinning lopsidedly.

xxx

It was a tricky business to mop up the soapy water, but with determination and a little help from the forgiving maid, the little scatter brain managed. Eventually, it was shortly before lunchtime, Aldwin and Sherlock Holmes set off towards the station. The little rascal was lucky enough to be allowed to sit on the large sledge his uncle had borrowed from Mr Summers, while uphill Aldwin pulled him and downhill joined him with great cheer. There was one particularly steep slope shortly before they would arrive at the station and with much laughter they sped down the snow-clad lane, missing the curve that lay at the foot of the hill and so ended up, head first, in a heap of snow.

"I should think, by now we would know the treacherous bend at any given foot of a mount." Aldwin mused chuckling, getting up and dusting off his clothing. He too wore more practical clothes than his usual elegant garb, looking quite rustic with his round felt hat, the red scarf, the thick black pea jacket and his riding boots. Why his uncle of all people had riding boots, was beyond his little nephew, as he had never seen the man atop a horse, but by the wear of them, he must have had them for some time, as their toecaps looked quite beaten and the sole was well worn. Had it not been for some spiked leather straps he had attached to his shoes, Sherlock was sure, his uncle would have slipped several times over on the frosty ground.

They were a little early, as they had planned, and so, expectantly they sat on the sledge by the platform and awaited the train, that would bring back Mycroft from school. With a loud whistle, the engine announced its prompt arrival and minutes later came to a halt at the tiny station, that offered little more than a waiting room and a stand within, where one could purchase a cup of tea and some biscuits.

Sherlock liked the big imposing machines, with their black kettle and the bright red wheels and bars (8). It was only once he had been on a train and he could not really remember it, as he had been too small, being only just three. It had been on the day when his uncle had picked up his orphaned nephews and had brought them to their new home, but that was all he knew still. With some surprise, the young boy realised he could not even remember his parents anymore as they had, over the years, faded into a distant memory. But now there was nothing but anticipation at seeing Mycroft again and the knowledge of being loved unconditionally by his remaining family.

The older boy flung open the door of the third class carriage and before Sherlock knew what hit him, he swayed under the weight of Mycroft's carpet bag that had been pressed into his hands, while their uncle took hold of the boy's trunk and Mycroft himself descended the two steep steps to land safely on the platform clutching his satchel.

As Sherlock found his balance again and had glared for a second or two at his brother, who grinned back at him cheerfully, patting the little one's head, the heavy bag was taken from him, by their guardian.

"Oh, it is so good to be back!" Mycroft exclaimed, taking hold of his trunk's other handle to help the man to lift it onto the sledge.

"It's good to have you back here." Aldwin smiled, giving his older nephew a hearty hug at long last. "You were missed dearly, Mycroft."

"Yes, and I missed you the most!" little Sherlock Holmes piped up, throwing his arms around the tall thirteen-year-old as soon as their warden had let go of him. "Oh, and we've got a new maid. She is really nice. The other day Uncle Aldwin and I fixed some shelves over your bed, so you can put all your books there. And Peter has agreed, to teach me, how to ride a horse. - Well, all right, it is just a pony, but after all, a pony is only a small horse, so it's pretty much the same. And two weeks ago, Uncle Aldwin told me, to cut off a branch of one of the apple trees. It's now standing in a jug on the windowsill in the kitchen. – And you know what? It is about to start blooming. I think soon, we might have apples on there, too..." here Mycroft and Aldwin Holmes started chuckling as the eager little boy chattered on happily, wanting to tell everything at once.

"And Alfie and I have decided, that we would build a sledge of our on, all by ourselves, and perhaps we can get his dog to draw it. You know Bruno is quite big and..."

"Sherlock, perhaps you could refrain from bursting out with everything at once? - We need to get home, or else it will be pitch dark before we reach the Langfield. And you know, Emma is waiting." he was at last interrupted by his uncle, who smiled kindly.

"Oh, yes! You know, Mycroft, she has prepared a bath for us. Isn't that nice? And do you know, what we'll have afterwards? We'll ha..."

"Sherlock!" now both the older Holmes' laughed aloud. Blushing, the little chatterbox stopped and then joined them. Happy at being reunited the three laughed, till Aldwin, a little out of breath and holding his sides, reminded them once more, that they needed to get moving.

When they reached home, it had indeed already gotten dark and a cold wind was howling through the dale they had to walk along for about a mile and a half, making all three of them shiver. Here and there, illuminated windows shone through the impending darkness, indicating the hamlets and farms they passed on their way. At long last, the glow of their own windows greeted them invitingly and they had barely crossed the garden gate, when the door was swung open and Emma, now wearing a plain black dress sans hoop, beamed at the three of them. Though tired, Sherlock ran up to her and flung his arms around her neck, making her smile even more broadly.

"I have started to get worried," she confessed, letting go of the little one. "I can tell there is more snow to come and you took such a long time."

"We are home now, Emma." Aldwin Holmes replied, appearing slightly embarrassed by her worries, but a small smile was playing on his thin lips nonetheless, showing he still appreciated her concern for him and the boys. "And this now, is my older nephew, Mycroft." he introduced while knocking the snow off his boots against the small stone step leading into the house.

Mycroft Holmes smiled tentatively, but their maid had none of it, taking his politely outstretched hand, she pulled him closer, placed her other hand on his shoulder and said sincerely: "I am very glad to meet you, at last, Master Holmes."

As she had promised, the bath was ready and waiting for them and without much ceremony, Aldwin had the boys take off their wet and partly frozen clothes in the comfortably warm laundry, and while Mycroft was tall enough to climb into the tub himself, his little brother was lifted in by the tall man (9).

"Don't forget to wash your hair!" their uncle reminded them, before disappearing into the kitchen, in all likeliness to help himself to a cup of tea.

"Ah, this is wonderful!" the older exclaimed.

"Yes, but you know, it would be even better if we could race a few walnut boats." the smaller and more innovative boy exclaimed, looking around him.

"In a bathtub?"

"Yes, why not? But there are no walnuts anywhere around..." he glanced around in the hopes of finding an alternative.

And to Mycroft's great surprise, the little inventive rascal did. There on a shelf only slightly out of reach lay four boxes of matches.

"You'll never get at them," Mycroft told him, not bothering to move, being quite happy to just sit and relax. But his little brother was undeterred in his efforts and climbing quickly out of the tub, he ascended a chair, emptied out two of the small cardboard boxes and pushing the footstool Emma used to reach better into the wash kettle towards the tub, he climbed back in having managed to drip all over the laundry, his wet tracks clearly visible on the rough floor.

"You are impossible, Sherlock!" his older brother grinned as they raced their matchbox boats by blowing against them and trying to reach the opposite side before the other did. It was unlucky though, that in their brotherly competitiveness both boats sank too quickly to determine a winner.

So it was, that the two boys ended up making bets on who could hold their breath the longest and dipped under water. After Sherlock had won for the third time in a row, he suspected his older brother to have him win on purpose, only to find, after having re-surfaced right after going under, that Mycroft indeed was barely able to hold his breath for long and then his eyes fell onto a large bruise on the elders rib cage.

"What happened to you?" Sherlock asked, worry in his bright grey eyes.

For a moment, Mycroft looked perplexed and then started laughing. "You mean the bruise? Well, that is quite a story, I tell you! - And I will, I promise, you will just have to be patient, little one. But for the moment, we better clean ourselves properly, before Uncle returns."

With that, his brother had been right as soon as he had said those words, the man re-appeared and had them climb out of the tub, dry and dress in their bedclothes, while he himself stripped down to also wash quickly in the still warm water.

xxx

The baked apple was as delicious as Sherlock had anticipated it and not a single crumb was left over on either of the four plates. Feeling comfortably warm, a familiar state of drowsiness had eventually set in and the many questions, answers and telling of stories were postponed to the following day.

During the night, it had started to snow again, just as Emma had predicted and the snowflakes looked much like soft downy feathers and reminded Sherlock of a fairy tale his uncle had once told them. Breakfast brought all the conversation that had been put off the night before and hence took about three times as long as it usually did.

"You still have not told me, why you have that big bruise on your chest." Sherlock inquired, with his mouth full of porridge, which earned him a rebuke from his guardian.

His brother looked slightly abashed, fell silent for a moment and with a tint of colour to his cheeks began his tale, knowing his uncle would not let him get off now that he had gotten wind of it: "Well, I made a wager with James – and yes, I know, I am not supposed to do so - that I could get hold of the schools ram – you know the school keeps sheep to keep the lawns in shape? Well, this ram is a nasty piece of work, but I did manage to get quite close to it, actually. I know from Peter, that you should stand completely still as soon as you get into the animals field of vision, so it cannot perceive you as a person and I did, only moving towards it, when it had turned its back on me. It took me an incredibly long amount of time."

He poured himself some more tea before continuing: "Well, James eventually got impatient, because it took me such a long time, to even come close to the animal and he too stepped into the paddock – well, you know how he is. Walking straight at the ram, the animal saw him and charged at him, butting him against the enclosure with force. I got to him just in time to stop that blasted animal from running against him again, with the result that I was likewise thrown against the wall. But the beast was distracted long enough for the two of us to make an escape. So no harm was done and all we sport are a few bruises, that is all."

Mycroft tried to look as nonchalant as he possibly could, but he knew he was in trouble, and deeply so.

"You are aware, that you could have been killed (10)?" Uncle Aldwin looked very, very displeased. "You and – I take it James refers to James Moriarty?"

Mycroft nodded reluctantly.

"For a boy of seventeen, leaving school next summer, he acts extremely stupid and irresponsible!" The man stated angrily, having once been said boys teacher, but at another school. "But he has always been reckless. - And why did you let yourself get trapped by him? What was the wager over?"

The older of the two brothers swallowed hard before admitting: "A small box of snuff (11)..."

Aldwin's fist descended onto the table top with such force that the spoons danced noisily in their empty bowls of porridge and both Sherlock and Mycroft jumped to their feet. Emma looked flustered, never having witnesses as yet, how livid Aldwin could look when upset. And an imposing sight it was!

"So, for a small box of snuff, you are willing to risk your life?" their uncle roared and Sherlock could not remember, when last he had seen his uncle this angry. His brother stood there, head hanging low in apparent shame, staring at his feet. "I had thought you to be more clever than this, really!"

"I am sorry, Uncle Aldwin. I really am." the culprit mumbled, looking up at last.

"And so you should be." was the slightly calmer reply. After his outburst, Aldwin had gotten up, walking back and forth in front of the stove. "Oh, and Sherlock, just to clarify, if I ever see you attempting something like this, I promise you, you will not be able to sit for a week. Is that understood?"

The younger one nodded, biting his lip. If his uncle threatened with corporal punishment, it was serious indeed. And there was no doubt at all, that Uncle Aldwin would deliver if he had to.

"I go and clean the path, shall I?" a still crestfallen Mycroft muttered and Aldwin, never angry for long accepted the peace offering with a small smile, sitting back down reaching for his pipe and the paper.

"Sherlock, give Emma a hand, will you?" his uncle spoke from behind his paper.

Jumping back to his feet again, the little boy, put their bowls together and brought them over to the sink.

"Thank you." she smiled, patting his head before beginning to wash up.

Sherlock had just taken out his wooden spinning top and had just finished wrapping the thread around it (12) when Mycroft returned from his task only to be told by his uncle, that while he was at it, he could also clear the short and narrow path in front of the school.

"Oh, and Sherlock? Perhaps you could change the water from the bucket, I forgot to bring it with me and I presume Reverend Whitwater will need the blackboard for Sunday school tomorrow. - And, while you are over there, foster the embers (13) as well, please"

Sighing Sherlock put on his boots and jacket and ran after his brother in quest of emptying the water from the bucket that was used to clean the small school's blackboard. Mycroft was almost done clearing the footpath, when Sherlock arrived, having struggled with a particularly tricky knot in his laces.

With a few swift steps the young rascal was inside the unadorned school building, hurried over to the small iron stove that kept the single school room warm and stoked the fire, adding a few more pieces of coal, that with the almost closed air flap only smouldered and then made sure, as had been drilled into him, that the oven was neatly closed again. Quickly grabbing the pewter bucket on his way out, he saw that Mycroft had already finished with his task and was on his way back and so, without much thinking, Sherlock emptied the half-full vessel as soon as he was outside, stepped through the shallow puddle and followed his brother around the house.

xxx

It was early afternoon when Alfie Taylor dropped by to ask if Sherlock wanted to go tobogganing and though Sherlock, for lack of a sledge of his own, needed to resort to making use of an old bit of waxed canvas (14), it did not bother him very much. Rolling up the piece of rough fabric, the three boys, as Aldwin Holmes had made sure, Mycroft went with them, left for Kerk Hill. It did not escape the younger of the two brothers, that the elder had managed to slip a book into the pocket of his jacket. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock skipped on alongside his best friend, little guessing that at home, the preparations for Christmas were in full swing as Emma was making mince pies, macaroons and gingerbread, having prepared the dough in secrecy almost a week prior so it could mature, while his uncle slipped out of the house after them to visit Reverend Whitwater to prepare for Sunday school.

When they reached Kerk Hill many children already sped down the steep slope. The footpath leading uphill had turned into a slippery and fairly treacherous track, where Sherlock's plain canvas proved to be quite an advantage, as all he needed to do was stuff it underneath his jacket to have both hands free to get to the top safely. Alfie, with his polished board, had less of an advantage. Having missed attaching a rope for pulling it, it was a cumbersome business pushing it and carrying it was just as irksome. Though once at the top, having been greased with a generous amount of lard, it sped downhill just like a proper sledge. There was one more decided disadvantage in comparison to the plain canvas though, which, after their reckless adventure with his uncles cart only little more than a month ago, made Sherlock prefer his makeshift toboggan to Alfie's, even though it was not as fast and a lot less comfortable to ride at least it could be steered properly and easily.

It came as it had to. Alfie, unable to control his makeshift sledge, lost his balance, rolled off the stroppy board halfway down and ended up in a heap of snow, banging his head hard on a stone near the surface and losing his hat in the process, that was consequently caught in a blackthorn bush and unravelled when it was retrieved by his best friend, who had come to his aid. Consequentially Alfie, holding his injured head assumed an exasperated expression while Sherlock looked rather sheepish with his friends dissolving hat in his hands.

Neither of them was sure afterwards, who started to laugh first, but Sherlock would wager it was Martin Riley, the eleven-year-old son of the apothecary. But soon others followed and at last almost all of the children laughed at the hapless Alfie with the bruise on his forehead and his still snow covered hair and clothes, his bemused face as he glanced dumbfounded from between his dissolving hat in his hands and the well-greased board that had slid further downhill, as if to spite him.

What the little Sherlock Holmes did know, however, was who started the ensuing snow fight. - It was himself. Coming to his friend's aid, he challenged everyone who was currently chuckling – and that was pretty much everybody apart from Janet Brickly, Alfie and himself.

"And what will you do to us little Sherlock Holmes?" George Dean asked in a spiteful manner, towering threateningly over the small and slender boy. Sherlock knew his uncle had only recently given the boy detention for having done something to Rosalie Brown and was little surprised to be on the receiving end of his wrath at being caught on his own.

"You'll see!" Sherlock cried out angrily, before quickly bending down and just as nimbly throwing a handful of snow into the glaring youths face. George Dean was already thirteen.

The ensuing raucous brought Mycroft to the scene, who had sat on a fence just out of sight to be undisturbed while reading. Watching some of the older boys rounding up on the smaller ones, he made haste to reach the cajoling group to get between the bullies and the smaller children – particularly his brother, who, fearless and daring as he was, was bound to be in the midst of it, no matter the consequence.

"What is going on?" he demanded to know in a harsh voice, though none of the brawlers paid much attention to him.

Being always one to cause trouble, George, Martin and their rather few but intimidating friends were now on one side and Sherlock, Alfie and the rest, the numerous Brown children among them, on the other. The rough snow fight spread across the whole of the slope, as one after another of the children at one point rolled, slipped or slithered downhill till, in the end, all of them were reunited on the lane towards Kerkhill Farm. Most children by now had enough and quickly left the scene to go home, but those who stayed were still hard at it.

It was a fierce brawl and to Sherlock's astonishment, Janet, as the only girl still present, was in the middle of it. It was a moment till he realised she fought out of sheer desperation, being cut off from her path home by three of the tallest lads of the ruffians' gang. Tugging at Mycroft's sleeve Sherlock caught his attention and the two brothers walked towards the three rakes in an attempt to help the scared little girl. So, while Mycroft distracted them, Sherlock got hold of Janet's hand and dragged her past the group and out of the danger zone. Wide-eyed the girl just looked at him in surprise, eyes brimming with tears and lips quivering, before turning on her heel and running down the lane towards her parents home.

But so it happened, that now Mycroft was in pretty much the same position that Janet had been in, only that this time the other boys did not restrain themselves. Rounding on the schoolmasters older nephew, George got hold of him from behind, while the others closed in on him, glaring. Sherlock could see his brother wince in pain, when the first blow hit him in his already bruised rib cage. With his sharp wit and the unwillingness to fit in, Mycroft had always been fairly unpopular with the group. He, with his bookish ways, was usually referred to as a prime example of learned behaviour by their parents and the patroness Mrs. Nichols and especially with Martin Riley this did not sit well. Marty's father, being only an apothecary, wanted for his son to become a doctor, and thus intended to send him to a public school, but his marks were bad and time and time again, Mr. Riley insisted in a voice filled with disappointment, that for the time being, it would be nothing but a waste of money. Now George and Martin paid back all the humiliation they had suffered, no matter how unfair it was to blame Mycroft for their own shortcomings.

Sherlock, inventive as he was, saw Alfie's board lying forgotten on the side. Picking it up, he hurried a few yards uphill and then flung the board towards the fighting group. It landed, as he had hoped it would, on the ground and slid with some vehemence towards the wrongdoers and in consequence, also as he had hoped slid forcefully against Martin's ankle. Yelping the boy glanced about him in surprise and thus being inattentive was duly kicked in the shins by Mycroft, who used the leverage his captors afforded him to his advantage. And so it went on. The two brothers fought as best as they could considering they were outnumbered and most of their opponents were older.

When the two boys finally reached home together with their guardian, Sherlock was bruised, his hand was swollen and he was wet through, having gotten a load of snow down the collar of his shirt while Mycroft's nose was bleeding and he was limping so badly that their uncle had to support him. To say Uncle Aldwin was displeased would have been an understatement, he was furious. But he was not angry with his wards. On his way back from Reverend Whitwater, Aldwin Holmes had decided to walk round Kerkhill Lane to check on the children and so happened to come upon the fight, breaking it up in the process.

"It is quite lucky we've got Sunday school tomorrow," he growled as he knocked the snow off his shoes upon entering their cottage. "I as well as Reverend Whitwater will have a word about what has just happened. And by Jove, Martin and George will feel the consequences of their actions!"

xxx

It was later in the evening that his conscience bothered the small imp so much, that he could not sleep. Tucked into bed early so he would not get ill after the afternoon's adventures, he lay there snuggled up to his old comforter blanket his mother had made for him when he was but a baby and the hot water bottle. From the sitting room downstairs he could hear the soft sounds of his uncle and brother playing some music, practising for the carolling on boxing day. Sherlock was the only one in the family not being able to play any instrument – another thing that was bothering him, feeling left out.

Then again, Mycroft had been trained on the flute from such an early age, that Sherlock, being seven years younger, could not remember a time, when his brother could not play the instrument, and well at that. Again, if his parents were musical, too, he could not recall, but his uncle certainly was, playing the piano, sometimes the organ at church and the violin all fairly well.

Sighing, Sherlock Holmes slipped out of bed and sneaked downstairs. It would not do, he had to confess to his uncle that he had started the fight in the first place. He would be just as bad as Martin and George if he did not own up to it and that was the last thing he wanted. No, he would confess and repent.

Waiting till the song was finished, he knocked carefully and upon being called in entered, head hanging and contritely.

"What is wrong with you then?" Uncle Aldwin asked, looking bemused at the ashamed little boy before him.

Putting down his violin, he beckoned him to come closer and sitting down he took his nephew's hands in his glancing up into his sparkling grey eyes.

"Uncle Aldwin, I have to make a confession… - I have started the snow fight, not Marty or George."

"Ah, and now you feel bad about it?" the young man inquired.

The child nodded reluctantly.

"Then why did you do it?"

"Because they all laughed at Alfie, even though he had hurt himself and his hat has had it and he sure will be in trouble for it. I told them to stop and most of them did, just George came over and asked what I would do if they did not stop and I told him I'd show them and he stepped towards me and then I took a handful of snow and threw it at his face and it all began."

For a moment his uncle sat completely still, while Mycroft cleaned his flute, looking affectionately at his little brother. After a minute of contemplation, Aldwin pulled the little rascal into a tight embrace and ruffling his hair laughed: "Oh Sherlock, what you did was very brave and very decent. You stood up for your friend and so you should have. And I am proud of you, my boy. A snow fight can be great fun, but one has to follow certain rules and while you did, George and Martin and their lot did not and that is my point – not the actual fight."

Pulling his younger nephew onto his lap and beckoning the older one to sit beside him the young uncle began telling them a fairy tale as a treat (15).

xxx

Attending church was a tedious business for little Sherlock Holmes. To sit still and just listen for a whole hour with nothing to occupy one's mind was no pleasant business. But eventually service was over and while the servants hurried back home the rest of the congregation scattered around in groups chatting merrily about this and that. Their uncle, nephews by his side, stood together with Mr Summers and his wife, as well as Peter and Mr Perry from the post office, talking about politics. Repressing a yawn, Sherlock looked around himself, while Mycroft seemed to find the conversation rather interesting. There, not eight feet from him, stood Martin Riley in his Sunday best, looking very respectable save for the shiner he sported. His father demonstratively stood between him and his best friend George, who was sporting a similar embellishment and the little imp wondered, how they had gotten their black eyes as it was certainly not during their fight yesterday afternoon.

Half an hour and several repressed yawns later the children were called by the Reverend to follow him and the whole group trudged down the back lane and over to the small schoolhouse. George and Martin, particularly demure today, obviously humbled by some punishment from their fathers, were the first to arrive at the door. Or they would have, had not the following ensued:

Walking almost ceremoniously the two boys suddenly yelped like girls, rowed desperately with their arms before landing on their backsides. Trying to get back up, proved a tricky business. The surface was as smooth as a polished wooden floor – or like a soapy stone tiled kitchen floor, Aldwin Holmes, who had followed the group, thought, suppressing a smirk. Sherlock gaped at the scene unfold before him, first in puzzlement then in realisation and turning around to hide his broad grin, his eyes met his uncles. With raised eyebrows, the man glanced at the amused little tyke and the twitch around the corners of his mouth showed he had counted two and two together already.

"Oh dear, oh dear!" Mr Whitwater cried, being of a decidedly less practical disposition than the young school teacher, standing helplessly by as the two boys still struggled to get off the ice. "What is to be done?"

"I would suggest a jute bag or rug be put on top of the ice," Aldwin replied calmly. "Sherlock?"

The man did not need to make any further instructions. Dashing off, the initial culprit went to fetch the required item, while Mycroft was made to lend a hand to help the hapless and once again humiliated boys off the frozen puddle. - Not without some satisfaction at their misfortune, it is to be said.

When the old rug had been supplied and lay spread across the frozen puddle, the whole giggling group of children walked over it safely and sat demurely down at their usual spots, just as if it were any other school day, just with less joy. Sunday school was a serious business, the Reverend had told them over and over again and many children agreed, that their regular lessons were much more fun – even though they included mathematics and grammar.

On entering the school, Aldwin Holmes held back his younger ward, whispering into his ear: "As much as I enjoyed the display, as it served both of them right, I suggest you start thinking before you act, Sherlock. It could have been an old lady or the Reverend who could have seriously injured themselves."

"Sorry." was the, admittedly not overly contrite answer he received.

Had Sherlock looked up at this moment, he would have known his uncle was up to something. The similarity between uncle and nephew once more uncannily apparent. But so the sly smile escaped him and as a result what followed was rather a surprise.

"The next few days, we will practise for a nativity play that we will perform on Christmas Eve." Reverend Whitwater announced pompously into the silence that had ensued after all of them had settled down.

The children gasped. Such an undertaking had never been attempted before, at least not in the village of Langfield (16). When the chatter had ceased, it was their school teacher who carried on.

"Reverend Whitwater and I have sat down together yesterday and have made a plan on who might be best suited for which part. As there are so many children, there are of course more possibilities to each role, so now, we would like to make a reading and all of you can participate in choosing who will get the part in the end."

The reading went on and on and at long last it was decided that Matt Rodgers would be acting the part of Joseph, Rosalie Brown would be Mary, Marty Riley, George Dean and Mycroft took the parts of the three wise men, Sherlock was to be the innkeeper and Janet – much to his embarrassment and his uncles delight – his wife, while the others were divided equally to be guests at the inn, shepherds and the choir of angels – the latter being consequentially those who could sing the best. The practise was then postponed to the following day so each of them could learn their parts and off they went, giddy with excitement. 

So, early the next morning, the children set off towards school as if it were any other school day only that their work promised to be so much more fun. Old clothes had hastily been altered by mothers, grandmothers and older sisters to suffice as a costume and Janet had brought a rag doll she had made herself, so they would have a baby Jesus to lay in the manger – a disused one, the Reverend himself had supplied.

They worked hard and were eager and even the three wise man managed to have the appearance of wisdom despite their black eyes, that Sherlock now knew stemmed from a fight among themselves a little later on, when on their way home, though what it had been about, he still could not figure out. As it was, he also could not figure out, why Janet once more was smiling sweetly at him and in a manner that made him most cautious. Since he had come across her being all covered in mud, they had only said to one another what was absolutely necessary, but now this most comfortable arrangement had once more been dissolved and the girl was happy to stay by his side acting his wife. Great!

xxx

"Uncle Aldwin," Sherlock mused, as they sat around their kitchen table in the evening, waiting for Emma to serve dinner. "Why did the wise men not bring more practical things for the baby? I mean gold is, of course, handy to have, so one could buy something to eat and stuff, but what would they do with incense and myrrh?"

"Because they think Jesus to be a king – which he is, but of a different kind then they have expected. It did not occur to them, that Jesus might be born as the child of a carpenter and his young wife, with him being the son of God."

"But they were wise men and magicians, reading the stars. How could they not know?" the curious six-year-old lateral thinker insisted.

Sighing, Aldwin lay his book aside and stared into space as if the answer would come to him in the same way it had seemingly come to the three wise men. At long last, he smiled and answered: "Even the wisest of men, Sherlock, and the most knowledgeable can err. They expected a king – the king of kings in all his glory – but it was worldly glory they expected not heavenly one and so they brought the most precious earthly gifts they could find, to bring to a child that had little use for them."

His elbows propped up on the table and his little pointy chin resting in his hands, Sherlock Holmes thought about what his uncle had just said and before long something else came to mind.

"Does that mean, you can be wrong, too?"

Laughing his uncle replied: "Yes, of course. It happens more often than you think, little one."

"Is there any way one can refrain from being wrong?" was the next innocent question.

"I am afraid not. Only a woman can eventually manage to keep from being wrong – and only after she has gotten married. - As a man, I am afraid, the only chance of at least not always being wrong is to stay unmarried." Aldwin replied in mock earnest.

With knitted brows Sherlock stared at his uncle, unsure whether he was joking or not. Only when the man's face cracked and he broke out in his hearty guttural laugh did he know the man had not been serious. - Or at least not completely.

This night in bed, Sherlock snuggled up to his brother, but the thought of what was right and what wrong never left his mind and sleep just would not come. Who said what was wrong in the first place? And had it always been wrong? Or did at one point what was right turn into something that was wrong? With mathematics, it was easy to determine the right answer. Mathematics was logical and provable. So, to be able to prove or disprove things would be a reasonable factor to determine if something was right or not, was it not? Mycroft, who was sleeping soundly, hugging his little brother had spoken of algorithms the other day – of logical sequences and Sherlock had found it quite fascinating. Could an algorithm – or rather logic be applied to everyday occurrences as well? He sure would try and find out.

At last sleep did come, which in Sherlock Holmes' case did not mean his mind was not busy anymore. Sherlock was a restless sleeper at the best of times, but when his mind was occupied he was like a little spinning top that could not even be kept still by Mycroft's embrace. As a result the exasperated teenager at one point during the night migrated back to his own cold bed, letting the restless little imp rotate around his own axis as much as he pleased, sometimes lying on his back and the next moment having his backside point towards the ceiling as he lay there as he had always done as a baby, legs tucked underneath his body and bottom up. The only difference now was, that he did not suck at the corner of his blanket any longer as had been his habit. In the moonlight Mycroft cast one more glance at his sibling and with a smile and a shake of his head turned around to go back to sleep.

The scandal happened three days later. The children had re-located their rehearsals into church the day before and with only two days to go before the performance all were pretty excited already. It was Mycroft who first realised, that the little rag doll, swaddled neatly in a plain brown blanket was missing. He was sure Rosalie had left the doll inside the manger, but now it was empty. The church was searched and so was the schoolhouse, but no baby Jesus turned up anywhere.

 

"I suggest we continue with our rehearsal and afterwards try and find a solution," Aldwin, at last, suggested seeing it was already nearing noon.

Reverend Whitwater, impractical as always only nodded, his good-humoured face showing a hint of disappointment at the loss. But as the children were all in it with their heart, the increasingly good performance of the actors soon reconciled him and by lunchtime, the smile was back on his face and the missing prop forgotten.

Well, forgotten by Reverend Whitwater at any rate. Sherlock, sipping on a cup of tea and gnawing on his biscuit, both provided by Emma and his uncle for all the little actors, had not forgotten about it and neither had Janet – after all, it was her doll. She did not fuss about it, however, but sitting down opposite Alfie, who played one of the shepherds, and her ‘husband', she began wondering.

"Really, I mean who would take Jesus?" she asked, keeping her voice low. "Do you think we might be able to find out?"

"Perhaps," Alfie answered, looking at the girl in awe, which did not escape his best friend who grinned to himself.

"If anyone can find out, I am sure it'll be us, don't you?" Janet continued, now looking straight at Sherlock.

"Perhaps." was his evasive answer, though he had already decided that he would pursue the mystery even before girl had approached them.

"So, what do you suggest we do?" she now asked with a curiosity Sherlock had never before encountered with her.

"We'll wait till the rehearsal is done for the day and then we start searching for traces." the young detective suggested. "Mycroft and Rosalie insist they left the baby in the manger, so there it should be, but it isn't. One thing is for certain – a doll cannot move on its own, so somebody must have taken it and if so, there must be a clue somewhere. We only have to find it."

And so, as soon as the group of actors had dissolved, Janet, Alfie and Sherlock sneaked back into church to have a good look around. It was thanks to Aldwin Holmes, who had seen them from the corner of his eye, that Mr Brown, who served as the sexton, did not lock them in.

"What do we do first?" Alfie wondered, feeling uneasy in this holy place without the rest of the congregation being present.

"Look at the manger, of course." was his friend's reply, who was already bending over the rough wooden thing filled with hay and straw topped with a rough cloth.

Even though Mycroft and Rosalie had searched the whole of the manger and had not found anything, the young sleuth attempted to do the same. First examining the cloth he folded it neatly and handed it over to Janet, who stood by in silence, while Alfie still stepped from one foot onto the other in obvious discomfort.

Next Sherlock took out all the hay and straw spreading it over the church floor in front of the altar and thus creating a bit of a chaos. But still no doll – no baby Jesus. But just when he though his efforts had been in vain, he spotted a small bow tied with a light pink satin ribbon, which must have slipped out of a girls hair. Trying to think of a girl he had seen with ribbons like this and unable to reach an answer, he, at last, asked Janet.

Picking it up from his outstretched palm, she looked at it closely and then shook her head.

"There are many who wear this kind of ribbon – I have the same colour ribbon at home. Mr Perry had them on offer a couple of weeks back and many of us have bought them, as they are so pretty."

That, Sherlock thought, was arguably, and he had the uneasy feeling his discovery rather widened the range of their possible suspects instead of narrowing them down. - Till it occurred to him, that at least for the time being, he could rule out the boys. They, of course, would not be found dead with a pink ribbon in their hair.

Gathering the straw together again and returning it to where it belonged Sherlock again glanced around himself. Could someone have put the doll inside the font, perhaps? It had not been searched and was covered by a wooden lid atop which lay an embroidered cloth and stood a chandelier. Thrusting the chandelier into his best friends shaking hands he lifted the cover only to discover that the font was actually filled with water. Reaching into it and down to the bottom, again he found no trace of their missing infant Jesus.

The last place they searched was the vestry that served as the inn in their nativity play. There were many chests and wardrobes for the ministers robes and a few boxes with various odds and ends Sherlock found rather strange to find in a church – like a pair of shears and a set of cutlery, but one never knew why they were there and so he tidied everything away as he had found it, with the pink bow still being the only clue to the heinous kidnapping.

When they stepped out of the church, closely watched by the amused reverend, it was beginning to get dark and soft flecks of snow began to fall again. As Alfie offered to escort Janet home, Sherlock turned around only to run into his uncle.

"I see you are on a new case," he smiled.

His nephew nodded. He had gotten quite a taste for solving mysteries.

"And, have you made any progress?"

"Not really, Uncle Aldwin." was the meek reply. "All we have found is this."

He held up the bow.

"You know what, Mr Sherlock Holmes, this is more than all the others have found."

"But could it not just as well be, that it was lost during the search?" this new thought had only just crossed his mind.

"Of course it could." Aldwin agreed with a proud smile on his face. "You know what? We go over to the school house and fetch my magnifying glass and then you take a good look at the ribbon once we are home. It cannot be much different than with nature – one is always surprised at how different something looks with a bit of magnification and how many more details one can make out."

It was said and done and as soon as dinner had been cleared away, the whole family sat around the table in an attempt to figure out what to do with the ribbon.

Mycroft insisted that the bow could not have come from Rosalie, as she, with her reddish hair, used blue ones, instead of pink. Janet was ruled out by Sherlock. It did not make much sense for her to supply the doll and then steal it before the performance. If she had wanted it, she could have just said so and have taken it home with her, to be brought back in the morning for the next practice.

The magnifying glass in one hand and the ribbon in the other, Sherlock began examining it closer. There was a wispy blond hair trapped in the knot of the bow. It was rather short for a girls hair and curled softly. Most girls at school wore braids and only Emily Hanson one of the older girls, had hair this length that she wore tied back, as her hair had been cut off when she had suffered from scarlet fever the previous year. It also was curling naturally, but hers was a dark brown so that she was also ruled out as were all the other girls with black, brown or red hair. - If this was indeed left by the thief, Sherlock reminded himself.

He then carried on to examine the actual bow more closely. The loop that had held the hair was but tiny, the little detective could not even get his pinky through it and borrowing a knitting needle from Emma he was sure, that only a tiny strand of hair had been tied up with this ribbon, not an actual braid. Wrecking his brains for who the mysterious girl could be he did not pay much attention to what was going on around him. After all, she also needed to have an opportunity to take the doll in an unobserved moment.

"Sherlock, could you please refrain from punching any more holes into the surface of our kitchen table?" he, at last, heard his uncles voice. The man managed to sound amused and fairly annoyed at the same time.

Waking up from his daze Sherlock realised he had been poking the knitting needle he still held in his hand into the polished wood, which had led to a curious pattern on the surface, almost like a star chart. With a start, he remembered something else. - Alfie's hat and the fact that he had not yet gotten a Christmas present for his friend. With only two days to go, it was high time.

"Emma, can you show me how to knit, please?"

This request was followed by an astonished silence. Even though all the men in the Holmes household knew how to sew on buttons and darn the holes in their stockings, none of them had ever attempted to do some actual needlework. With a smile at her little darling, Emma put aside her spinning wheel and took out a ball of bright red wool and another of equally vivid green and handed it to the boy alongside a set of five knitting needles. The boy looked slightly intimidated.

But with a lot of patience Sherlock managed to get his first row of knitting done and the more rows he finished, the quicker it went, till by the end of the evening he was, with his nimble hands and the willingness to learn quite proficient and the hat was finished to his satisfaction and pride only a few hours later, sporting wider stripes of red and narrower ones of green. At last the maid showed him how to make a bobble and this together with a little bell, which had originally been intended for a Mayday sash, was attached to the cheerful looking new woolly hat for Alfie Taylor.

When he met his friend and Janet the next morning, Sherlock Holmes told them, what he had found out so far.

"Then I know who is the kidnapper!" Janet exclaimed to his surprise.

"You do?" Alfie asked baffled, looking as if he could not make any sense of what had been said at all.

"Yes. Little Mary Brown. Rosalie's sister."

"But she is only four!"

"Yes, but Mr Brown is the sexton, he often is in the church tidying up, looking after the flowers and so on. - I know, because my father is one of the vestrymen and he said he is really pleased with Mr Brown, for he is such a reliable man despite him having so much work to do with his business and all."

"But it is widely known, that Mrs Brown does most of the sewing, not her husband," Alfie interjected. Mr Brown was the local tailor, who, with his surplus of children had been chosen to fill the position as sexton for the purpose of being able to better provide for them.

Janet rolled her eyes, obviously knowing what was being said.

"Then I suggest we go there and ask her." Sherlock at last suggested.

"But rehearsal starts in ten minutes."

"Yes, I know, so I suggest we hurry up. The Browns only live only on the other side of the church common it is not as if we have to walk for miles." was the impatient reply.

They found Mrs. Brown occupied with the newest arrival – a baby of four months old named Robin, while Rosalie, Peter, Carol, Anna and Jack were about to leave the house in the direction the three little detectives just had come from.

Mary Brown sat by the fire and played with the family cat.

"Mary, have you taken the doll out of the manger in church?" Alfie asked her without so much as a greeting.

Had her little face before been smiling and open, it now shadowed over and she got up stamping her foot determinedly.

"I don't like you!" she cried out.

Alfie looked sheepish from Sherlock to Janet. It was Sherlock, however, who quietly carried on:

"I am sorry, Mary. It is just that we have lost our baby Jesus and we have set out to find him, you know. Last night I found this in the manger and we believe it is yours, is it?"

The little girl examined the bow and then nodded.

"Yes, it is mine. I have lost it."

"And the doll?"

She seemed confused for a moment before, with a little help from Janet she realised that they meant the doll that was supposed to be Jesus.

"Oh, yes, I liked the doll and I took it, to have a closer look at it. I wish I had a doll like that!"

"And what did you do then?"

"Father wanted to leave and I put it back into the manger, where I have found it. Though I have to admit, the blanket was not so neat anymore as it had been."

"Do you think she is lying?" Alfie whispered in Sherlock's ear. But to his surprise, his friend shook his head vigorously.

"Mary, was there somebody else in the church?"

Biting her plump little lip, the little girl pondered for a moment before answering: "Yes, father had spoken to a man. He came over and looked at the arrangement and then went outside with us. - I think it was your father." she pointed at Janet, who gaped at her in astonishment.

But young Sherlock Holmes thought it made perfect sense and he was sure he had solved the mystery, even though he did not yet say so to his friends. He preferred being able to prove it first.

And so, when they were called home for lunch, he followed Janet and watching her enter the house he waited for a minute or two before knocking. He was lucky it was Mr Brickly who opened the door himself, as the maid was busy serving their meal.

"Good day Mr Brickly, I was just wondering, if you by chance have taken the doll out of the manger and took it home with you?"

First, the man looked perplexed, then he laughed.

"And why would that be of any interest to you, young man?"

"Because someone kidnapped baby Jesus and we have since been looking for the doll but could not find it."

"Ah, right." George Brickley smiled and bending down he whispered. "I will make sure that by this afternoon baby Jesus is returned to the manger. We needed her – as it normally is a girl – to fit her a new dress so, when I saw my daughters doll lying there, I took it home with me, not thinking it would cause a stir. Will you promise to keep quiet, young master Holmes?"

"I promise." was the solemn reply.

xxx

The play was a success and when Aldwin had finally managed to get his wound up nephews into bed he sat with Emma for quite a bit, relishing in the comfort she had brought to his home and family. With her in the house, he did not feel the need to retire to the sitting room quite as often as he had done when Kitty lived with them – or to his bedroom, that also served as his study.

"Is everything prepared?" he asked the industriously spinning woman.

"Yes, sir. I only want to wait for them to actually sleep before I start decking the room and setting up the table."

"Yes, I would not be surprised if young Sherlock finds a reason or two to sneak down again to wait for Father Christmas." he laughed.

"No, me neither."

And indeed, the very moment those words had been spoken the little imp peeked through the door.

"Can I have something to drink please?" he pleaded. A glass of water was handed to him with a smirk.

 

A.N.: Sorry, I know this kind of turns into Wikipedia… But children like to ask questions and I thought I can just as well put some background info on here as well.

 

(1) So first, hot water bottles back then were most commonly made of metal, and looked literally like a flat bottle (either oval or round in shape) with the opening at the top. They were not very practical and more often than not could easily spill, despite their screw cap. One also could easily burn oneself with them, so they were usually covered by something or only used to get the bed warm in the first place and be taken out, once one went to bed. In this case, I would imagine, Emma has knitted a cover for the thing…  
Bed socks, were another means of keeping warm in bed in an unheated bedroom, as were bed jackets and caps, though not mentioned here.

(2) With single glazing, this would be a regular occurrence during the winter. It actually looks magical.

(3) It was not uncommon for siblings to share a bed. In this case Sherlock and Mycroft each have their own bed, and Mycroft would, with thirteen, presumably soon get too old to want to share a bed with his little brother, but considering, that there is no fire in their chamber, it has single glazed windows and there is no insulation, one can easily understand, why Sherlock is looking forward to being able to snuggle up with his brother for warmth.

(4) Meant is the jug that goes with a wash bowl. It is standing to the side of the stove, so the water can get nice and warm, but it is not actually on the stove. (At least not at first...)

(5) This is obviously the practical clothing of a country boy. Under normal circumstances, it can be doubted, that Sherlock would have grown up so free and unrestricted, but his uncle is wise enough not to put him into any finery, different than, one can assume, his parents would have done. So at this point, Sherlock looks a far cry from the son of a country squire, that he actually is. And yes, one is allowed to wonder, why the boys and their uncle, who is obviously brother to the boy's deceased father, are living in such modest circumstances. It will eventually be explained, but not in this series. This, as said, will stay the cheerful, (almost) carefree re-telling of a childhood in the 1860ies, to be read to my son.

(6) Mince pies are a type of sweet pie, mainly served during the Christmas season, filled with a mixture of dried fruits and spices. There is no actual mincemeat in there, even though the filling is called such.  
Plum pudding or Christmas pudding is a very traditional part of an English Christmas dinner. It is made of a variety of dried fruits, fresh apples, carrots and nuts, mixed together with brandy, egg, suet, treacle and spices such as cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves and ginger. It is extremely sweet and rich but absolutely delicious. In times of old, the pudding would be aged for months to increase the flavour, though from experience I can well say, that one month or even two weeks are sufficient, taking into consideration, that today, hardly anyone has still a larder in the house that provides the perfect conditions to store such an item over a long period of time.  
Gingerbread is a kind of biscuit that is, surprise!, made with ginger and is also traditionally served around Christmas.

(7) Considering the fact that Emma is in the habit of wearing a hooped skirt, one can easily assume that she revealed quite a bit of herself to Aldwin, who obviously is in a position to look underneath it. Especially if one also considers, that Victorian bloomers were open at the crotch… Their embarrassment is well justified, I would say.  
In case you are wondering, from where he is sitting, all Sherlock can see is basically the other, ‘decent' side of things.

(8)Ah, steam trains – seriously, what boy is not fascinated by them? At that time, England had the most advanced rail system in the world. Were my son now sitting next to me, he would explain in detail how a steam engine works, but alas, he is not and the way I would explain would be so tediously lengthy, that I will spare you and me the trouble of attempting it. So, I will just give the link to the Wikipedia site instead: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Steam_locomotive.

(9) Yes, another thing that might sound odd today: people sharing a bath. Again, in this case, the two brothers sit in it together, because of both of them needing to warm up, obviously. So it is only Aldwin, who takes his bath later – and yes, in the same water. Preparing a bath was, as already indicated, not just a matter of opening a tap, so the whole family would use the same water one after the other, to clean themselves.  
Also, Victorians are supposed to be prudes, yes, I know, but that mainly applied to the behaviour towards the other sex. Women were, in general, more sheltered, but for boys and men, there were various situations, where they would see another boy or man naked. Mycroft, for example, attends a boarding school, were most certainly not each and every boy had their own bathroom to wash in. There also were communal bathhouses, so even the people not fortunate enough to have their own bathroom, could clean themselves and again would see their fellow men naked. And cleanliness was very important to the Victorians... So, after all, there is no reason to assume, that Aldwin would not take a bath, while his nephews were still dressing in the same room.  
If someone took offence with that, I am sorry, it was not intended to imply that Aldwin Holmes is behaving indecently towards the children under his care.

(10) This is actually not an overstatement! So please, never ever go into a paddock where there is a ram kept, especially not, if the animal does not know you. An encounter can be painful in the best case and deadly in the worst. Some rams can be extremely aggressive, especially during mating season and while the lambs are born, and are to be reckoned with. Depending on the breed of sheep it can be easily a bulk of more than 15 st. (or 100 kg / 220 lbs) that comes at you with considerable speed, a skull that is made to butt together with another equally equipped one and an impressive set of horns. We keep a very docile ram of a smaller breed of sheep and still, if he is in a bad mood, you would not want to cross paths with him, believe me.  
The trick Mycroft uses might work, but it might just as well not.  
And before I forget it, a ewe who just had a lamb is also very protective of her offspring. Unless the animal trusts you, it is certainly the wiser decision to stay away.

(11) Snuff is very finely ground tobacco that is snuffed into the nose and the nicotine thus consumed. Yes, I know it appears to be quite weird, that Aldwin does not get angry at his nephew obviously taking snuff, but only for the reward being this ridiculous in comparison to the risk involved. Then again the attitude towards drugs and especially tobacco was much laxer than it is today. With Mycroft being thirteen, he might have already been offered snuff or a cigar by an adult without anyone taking offence.

(12) Meant is one of those spinning tops where one wraps a thread around and then pulls it to get it spinning. Usually, this thread is attached to a small stick and used to whip the top so it keeps on spinning. It needs quite a bit of practise.

(13) Particularly coal burning stoves could take a fairly long time to heat up once they went out completely, so one method to make heating up a stove easier was to foster the embers, meaning that they were kept at a point, where they were glowing but did not actually burn, meaning the oxygen supply inside the stove was kept at a minimum. Of course, once in a while some more coal had to be added so it would not burn out, this is what Sherlock is sent to do here.

(14) Plastics were known, but not widely spread and nothing we would recognise as plastic today so that for the purpose of covering something to keep it dry they used waxed or tarred sheets of cotton. So what Alfie and Sherlock use for sliding down the hill are more like snow gliders, not actual sledges. I am not entirely sure about the properties of a greased wooden board – though I am sure it will slide, with a plane I know for a fact that it does the trick and is steerable by shifting one's weight.

(15) Remember, there was no telly and no radio. So telling stories or reading books aloud was fairly popular. - As well as making music, of course, or playing games.

(16) The village is purely fictional though in my mind it is located in Sussex near the town of Lewes.


End file.
